Taking Out the Trash
by HayltotheChief
Summary: A series of one-shots in which I write Jake Ballard off of Scandal. All will be humorous (as in, Joke-filled). Some will be AU. All will conclude with Jokey Boy gone. Bye bye, Ballard. I won't miss you.


Disclaimer: _Scandal_ and its characters belong to ABC Studios, not me.

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><p><strong>Drive Drive Crunch Crunch Bye Bye<strong>

"I've always liked you, David," the man said, fingering the gun that had shot and killed at least two, probably three of your compatriots, and an untold number of others. "You seem smart. Are you smart, David? Can you work with me on this, or do I need to stop liking you?"

You note that he sounds like a stereotypical psychopath, like in a book you recently read where the rapist, just after his violent violation of an innocent woman and right before he tries to set her on fire, says, "I'm sorry. I think I might be having an episode. I'm not really a bad person. I didn't hurt you, did I?"* Or Norman Bates. Either way, his extraordinarily twisted view of reality shook you to your core. You nodded, and he let you run away, like he hadn't let James Novak. You saw him kneel down next to James, and then a single thought blared out at you. You ignored it; you were not his kind. You were a prosecutor. You saved lives, though the act would save lives in the long run. The ends justify the means. You pound your head; shut up, you whisper, shut up. You think you've silenced the murmurs. You run on, away.

And then you see the car. The old, black Lincoln Continental with a pair of fuzzy dice hanging from the rear view mirror, a long scratch on the side you don't want an explanation for, and a dent which suggested that what you were about to attempt had been done before. _His_ car. With the keys still plugged in. Suddenly, you realize that justice isn't always in found in courts, that he certainly will never be tried in court. But there is another way to stop him. You know what you have to do and you advance towards the car, slowly, deliberately, one step at a time. What you're about to do is so far from anything you've ever done or contemplated doing. But you have to do it; it is your duty. You must do this for Olivia, to protect her from being stuck at the whims of this psychopath, for Cyrus and Ella, for James, for Shelby and Vanessa and their families, for the others that may never be known. They shouldn't, no, they can't lie in a ditch. You will get justice. You will stop him, even if you have to bring the republic down to do it.

You twist the keys in the car. It sputters, and you hope, you pray to god, that it will start. It's odd, of course, to pray to god minutes, if not seconds from committing the act, but that doesn't register to you then. You just twist the keys again and hope for a spark. It does, loudly, and you know that this has to go perfectly to work. You slam on the accelerator, and you drive faster in this crappy old Lincoln than you ever have in your whole life in your trusty Volvo. Drive, you say in your head, forward. You have a death grip on the steering wheel, and brace yourself for the grand impact. It never really came. You hear the psychopath scream out like a little girl and the sickening crunch of bones and you feel a bump. You feel sick. You stumble out of the car and say, "That left a mark." You look at the damage and pause. "Poor fender." You wander the streets of D.C. for what feels like hours, but is actually minutes. You find a phone booth (forgetting the new BlackBerry you have safely encased in your pocket) and call 911. Then you call Olivia. "I just killed your boyfriend," you say.

"What?" she asks back, horrified. "You just killed the president?" You realize that you needed to clarify your statement (you also take a moment to breathe a sigh of relief that she didn't consider the psychopath to be her primary boyfriend).

"No. Jake," you say. "I just killed Jake Ballard."

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><p>It's loud. Ambulances are blaring, fire trucks have congregated, police are surrounding, and news reporters jabber and clamor. The area has been cordoned off, and you sit next to the chief of police, Nolan Steele. Olivia sits down next to you, adorned in her usual perky white at 11:33 at night. "Has he given a statement?" she asks Nolan. He shook his head. "So you're just sitting here staring at the crowd at least thirty minutes after the event?"<p>

"Liv," he whined.

"We've got to do this quickly," she said. "Nolan, I like you, I do. But if you have any hopes of being elected mayor of this great city like rumors say, you've got to handle this...tragedy right. And that means no room for questions, no time for doubt." She turned to you. "David, give Harrison a dollar," she instructed. Harrison appears, as if out of nowhere. You wouldn't be surprised if she pulled her associates out of a hat (certainly not a white one), but Harrison's appearance is still uncanny. You dig into your pocket and pull out your wallet, tempted to rifle through your museum membership cards, like you would any other day. Instead, you fish out a nice, untarnished one dollar bill. You hand it to her. "Harrison's now your lawyer." You feel a sense of déjà vu, but then you realize that you have seen this before.

Nolan beckons over some officers, who he instructs to take you to the station. As you turn to leave, you hear him ask, "Wasn't he your boyfriend, Olivia?" It seems like a question that she's going to get asked a lot. Sadly, you're too far away to hear her reply.

It's twelve before the interview starts, one before you make a sarcastic spiel about how Jake was a perfect little angel, one-thirty before Abby shows up with a tape of the encounter (a butt-voicemail on your BlackBerry saved you), and four before you're released. Harrison mentions, in passing, that the president's been briefed and will support you in a press conference at eleven. After all you've done for him, he should. He walks you to a black limo, which will take you to Olivia's house. Harrison has the keys, or so he says.

"Why can't I stay with Abby?" you ask.

"Too obvious. If I were a member of the press, the first place I would look is the house of the girl he's snogging on Facebook." You shut up, but then ask a question that is toying with you: where on earth is Olivia Pope?

"The White House," Harrison says. "And don't worry about having Liv as a roommate; it didn't sound like she was about to let the president out of her sight anytime soon."

"What about his wife?" you ask. Harrison just gives you a long sideways look.

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><p>Abby's waiting for you at Olivia's house. Apparently Huck dragged her there. "Thank god you're okay!" she cries, throwing her hands roughly around your neck.<p>

"Of course I'm okay," you say. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"David," she sighs. "Oh, David."

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><p>"Hello, America. I'm standing before you with a heavy heart and another reminder of the terrible depths some people will sink to for power. At approximately eleven P.M. last night, Captain Jake Ballard shot and killed journalist Vanessa Chandler, NSA employee Shelby Moss, and White House Press Secretary James Novak," the president somberly announced to the nation, confirming the rampant speculation on Twitter, while you watch, sitting on a couch next to the love of your life. "U.S. Attorney David Rosen killed the offender in an act of self-defense and was released and cleared of charges after physical and audio confirmation beyond a shadow of a doubt that Mr. Ballard killed the others and threatened Rosen, and a follow-up DNA test that revealed that Mr. Ballard's DNA was at multiple unsolved murder scenes, including the brutal murder and rape of five year-old Helen Wright seventeen months ago that rocked the nation, and the disappearance of Senator Williams. I have known Mr. Rosen for several years and will vouch for his integrity. And today, he's an American hero.<p>

"However, we've lost more than Shelby, James, and Vanessa..." the president explains what happened remarkably truthfully, even though he announced his divorce and the arrests of Cyrus and the First Lady as accessories after the fact for the murder of Daniel Douglas Langston. He only veered into lying territory when he omitted B-613's involvement. But you can live with that. You snuggle up into Abby. You can live with that, although Jake Ballard couldn't. You made sure of it, and you don't regret it one iota.

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><p>*Quote from <em>The Round House<em> by Louise Erdrich, p. 162.


End file.
